It wasn’t too long ago in a church we once visited when the pastor did not invite everyone to partake in Holy Communion. In fact, he requested that those sitting in the congregation who had not personally accepted Christ as Savior to please remain seated while those who professed Christianity to come forth and receive. I don’t know if anyone actually obeyed (peer pressure can be just as fierce in the church as anywhere else) and remained seated, or if everyone listening that Sunday was indeed saved, making the pastor’s request moot, but I was surprised at his bold intimations. Non-believers? In church? On an insignificant Sunday to boot?
But ever since that particular Sunday sermon, I have come to view and understand (as best I can, anyway, with my weak human mind) the Holy Communion in all its sacred glory. And today, as we were invited to partake with our new church family, as I began to reflect on the spiritual significance the sacraments have to me as a believer, the purpose and hope Christ imparted that dark night to the twelve men who would carry His burden of salvation, the remembrance and declaration Christians make when accepting the body and blood of Christ, I felt a tug on my sleeve.
“Mom,” my little Bug whispered as our preacher told the old, old story once more. “Are we getting food?!”
I had to laugh; the few times Bug took Communion, he was still much too young to really know what we were doing. But this morning, as I paraphrased our preacher’s sermon, condensing it to six-year-old speech, I was privy to watching elementary understanding dawn on my little boy’s face.
He was a mere three years old when he prayed The Prayer and told me quite matter-of-factly that he believes in Jesus, and even now, his genuine appetite to learn more about the Lord is astounding. But being able to explain the meaning rooted deep in the Last Supper, and being able to transfer from my heart to his the weight of Christ’s sacrifice, His final plea to remember…there is little else sweeter in this world, I think.
It is rewarding in the simplest sense to watch my son learn, and to not just try but to sincerely want to wrap his young mind around important Biblical doctrine. And as I dug deeper into the significance of the bread and Welch’s, repeating as best I could the same prophetic words Christ spoke to His fickle followers, the hope of His message resting on a dozen weary shoulders, I could almost literally see Bug’s heart grow bigger and even more tender toward the Lord.
As faltering as my own faith can be, I can know and trust that God has His sights on my little boy, and I can only imagine the melting of our God’s heart when children like my Bug yearn after Him. And as a mother, watching my little man begin to take root in an unshakeable foundation, well, it is hope enough indeed.
Meet the Buttrams 